


Krycek Episodes, The

by Byrdie



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-05-29
Updated: 2002-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 11:32:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11334843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byrdie/pseuds/Byrdie
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Krycek Episodes, The

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Krycek Episodes, The

## Krycek Episodes, The

#### by MadByrd

From: <>  
Subject: [RatB-K] FIC: The Krycek Episodes By MadByrd 1/2 Date: Wednesday, August 22, 2001 1:06 PM DISCLAIMER: This parody is committed with no intent to infringe. The author claims absolutely nothing -- not even responsibility for any resulting bruised egos. <g>  
RATED R (or maybe NC-17?) for m/m/m naughties. <bg> Oh, and bad language, too. <tsk, tsk!>  
NOTES & OTHER WARNINGS: Beware of occasional half-assed spelling. We Canadians mangle both American and British English equally ... unless we're French. Then it gets even worse <g> and you gotta worry about the Language Police. (Think I'm joking? Ask Jacques Villeneuve.) This is my revenge for you-know-what.  
SPOILERS: Read the title, dummy. 

* * *

"The Krycek Episodes"  
By: MadByrd 

**WASHINGTON, D.C.**

Walter Skinner was in a very good mood. It was five p.m. on a Friday and he had the whole weekend off, but that wasn't it. He'd gotten the promotion he'd been up for since Captain Margolis retired and was now running Major Crimes the way it ought to be run, but that wasn't it either. Even the fact that they'd solved the Pendrell homicide (the victim's ex-wife confessed, her lawyer was pleading insanity) and caught the kidnappers who'd snatched little eight-year-old Samantha Davis right under her nanny's nose -- no thanks to a pair of dweeby feebies named Doggerty and Jones -- and finished all the paperwork on time wasn't it. The creeps were cooling their heels in jail and Sam was back safe and sound, just a little bit scared, thank goodness, but that still wasn't it. No, Walter had to confess to himself if no other, the real reason -- pair of reasons -- for his atypical absence of surliness waited for him at home. Fox and Alex, the loves of his life. And in about half an hour or so (allowing for traffic) he'd be with them. He smiled -- no, leered would be a better word for it --imagining the three of them naked and sweaty in their king-size bed, making wild jungle love. Yep, the "Old Man" had big plans for his boys tonight. He was getting a hard-on that would make most bull elephants envious just thinking about it. Hell, you'd think he'd be eighteen instead of forty nine his next birthday, which was only a month away. 

He made it home in almost record time, parked the Ford in the garage and got out. Thank God none of their neighbours were home; there were only so many sins a good tailor could hide and this wasn't one of them. A strategically positioned briefcase, on the other hand ... Walter all but bounced up the front porch steps, expecting -- as usual -- to be smothered in welcome home kisses. 

Silence greeted him instead. Krycek and Mulder were nowhere in sight. 

Skinner frowned. What were those two up to now? At breakfast Fox had mentioned a meeting with his publisher -- something about galley proofs for the new Mack Steele thriller -- but that was hours ago. And his car, a candy apple Ferrari, was parked right next to Alex's bike. They should be home. Where were they? Gone for a walk? Not likely, what with Alex still hobbling around on crutches after being shot by that Cardinale sleaze. The druglord had been more than just a little bit pissed at finding out his newest hired thug was really a cop. Only Krycek's lightning quick reflexes had saved him; that bullet had been meant for his brain. Cardinale, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky. Alex never missed ... and he had the marksman's medals to prove it. 

"Sasha? Fox?" Walter called. No answer. He checked the kitchen -- dinner should have been cooking but wasn't --and Fox's office. Nothing. Now he was really beginning to worry. People in law enforcement had a tendency to make enemies; people in law enforcement in _this_ crazy town .... But there were no signs of a struggle, indeed of any violence. He let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding; neither of his mates would have allowed the other to be taken without one hell of a fight. And, while Mulder's housekeeping skills left much to be desired, at the moment their home bore no resemblance to downtown Beirut. 

Upstairs. Maybe they'd decided to wait for him in bed. Wouldn't be the first time. As for dinner, well, they might have made other arrangements. Which meant having to alter his own plans somewhat but Walter Sergei Skinner was nothing if not flexible. He had to be, to keep up with the pair of rascals *he'd* married. Soft noises. "Are my baby bears hiding in here?" he growled, and threw open the bedroom door. Expecting -- as usual -- to be pounced on and stripped stark naked in the blink of an eye. 

He wasn't. His husbands were on the bed, not in it. All clothing was present and accounted for (darn!) and while Fox was indeed holding Alex there was nothing sexual about their embrace. It spoke more of comfort than of concupiscence and as Walter drew closer he saw tears, not desire, shimmering in a pair of exquisite jade eyes. "Sasha? Sweetheart, what is it? What's wrong?" Whatever it was, it had to be something pretty serious to make tough guy Alex cry. His was a sensitive soul but a well-guarded one, as anyone who knew him could attest. 

Alex sniffled. Fox petted him, tangling his fingers in those lovely sable locks. Whispered something in a dainty elfin ear. Alex cuddled closer and shook his head. 

Walter groaned. So much for the dirty weekend he'd been fantasizing about. Well, if Krycek wouldn't tell him ... "Fox?" 

Mulder shot him one of those "haven't got a clue" looks. "He was fine till maybe an hour ago. Spent most of the afternoon watching TV; that new video Dana sent while he was in the hospital." Dana was their sister-in-law from Fox's side of the family. Three years younger than her "Famous Author" brother and nearly nine months pregnant with her and husband Bill Scully's fifth child. They lived over in New Hampshire where, between reproduction, she practiced as a vet. Mulder's nieces and nephews were spoiled absolutely rotten whenever they visited, which was often. Sometimes _too_ often for Walter's liking -- they did tend to be a rather rambunctious crew. And as for Scully senior ... the man was a moron with no redeeming features whatsoever. What the brainy, petite Dana Mulder ever saw in him -- beyond average looks and an abnormally high sperm count -- heaven only knew. Her brothers-in-law sure didn't. 

"The one from that sci-fi show he's hooked on?" Walter didn't watch much television; he preferred to read. All he knew was that it was about these two FBI agents who spent more time chasing aliens from outer space and uncovering a shadowy conspiracy out to take over the world than solving any actual crimes. And it was Alex's favorite program. When asked why he liked it so much, the young detective would shrug. "I want to believe," was all he said. He rarely missed an episode and when he did, fellow addict Dana sent him tapes. The living room video cabinet was full and so was the one in their bedroom. He must have, what, eight whole seasons by now. At this rate the darned thing could run forever ... and they'd have to build on another room just to accommodate his ever-increasing collection. 

"Uh-huh. The X-Files." An absolutely wicked Fox grin. "Sounds like a dirty movie." He ought to know. His porn library was the envy of at least a third of the neighborhood.. not to mention the entire D.C. Vice squad. Skinner's fellow captain, Joe Reilly, was always going on about how they ought to enlist the adventure novelist as a "special consultant". Maybe one day he'd tell them Fox was taking him up on the offer, just to see the look on the guy's face. 

Walter was surprised. "You watch it?" 

"Once in a while. It's not half bad if you ignore the really weird stuff, like liver monsters and fat-sucking vampires." 

Fat-sucking vampires? He _had_ to ask. Mulder went on without missing a beat. "What I like most about it is their boss, a sexy big bald stud by the name of Skinner." 

"You've _got_ to be kidding." 

Alex spoke up for the first time. "He's not kidding. AD Walter Skinner. The guy that plays him, he ..." Alex hiccupped. Apparently he wasn't quite done with the waterworks yet. "He looks just like you." 

"No!" 

"Enough to be your twin," Fox commented. "Same with that double agent or triple agent or whatever the heck he is. The one they call Krycek -- though I notice they keep spelling it wrong." 

"Don't tell me his first name's Alex," Walter pleaded. This was sounding crazier by the minute. 

"All right, I won't. I _will_ say for the record that actor David Whatsisname who plays Agent Fox in the series is absolutely nothing like me, though Alex insists he's the spitting image." 

"Except for the nose and being color blind," Krycek mumbled against Mulder's chest. "And ... and my Fox would never beat me up the way that guy on TV does. But I guess that's 'cause the networks still get bigger ratings from a show with two guys fighting in it than one with two guys kissing. And they wanna kiss, I know it. So does Dana; she said there was this one episode where the undercover spy, Alex, did it. Gave his Fox a kiss. Like this." He demonstrated. Yep, that was a kiss, all right. And not the Russian "good luck, comrade" version either. Hot enough to make Walter's glasses steam over and his poor neglected cock rise from the dead to see what all the fuss was about. No way would they ever show _that_ in prime time, he thought, reaching for his beloved little rat. 

* * *

After, when they'd loved Alex into a puddle of pure bliss and he'd fallen asleep between his two large husbands, Walter had to admit he was no closer to figuring out what the problem was. And there definitely was a problem: in the course of their lovemaking a passionate Fox had yelled, "Harder! Give it to me, Ratfink!" while Alex was eating his tasty boy-pussy. Normal procedure, including the nickname - one bestowed by Krycek's fellow detectives following an April Fool prank involving a disgustingly lifelike rubber rodent. Walter's own preference was RatBoy and he'd been known to scream it enthusiastically in similar circumstances. Alex had always taken it in the spirit in which it was meant. But not tonight. Tonight he'd pulled off so fast he left skid marks and in a frosty voice warned, "Never call me that again, either of you." Poor Fox gaped like he'd just been sucker punched. He stuttered, "B--but baby..." 

"No buts, I mean it. Call me anything you want but not that." He wasn't through; soon it was Walter's turn to quail. "Same goes for RatBoy. I hear it once more and I'm gone. Bad enough I've got to take it from my partner and the jerks he hangs around with, I will _not_ put up with it from you just because we're married. You're my friends, my lovers, and you ought to know better." 

"We do. We do know better, Lexy," Fox protested. Hazel eyes met chocolate. "Don't we, papa bear?" 

"Don't be silly. Of course we do." He was talking to Mulder but Alex thought he'd meant him. "If that's what you think of me ..." Krycek had turned away then, shoulders slumped, trying to hide his hurt. It all but broke Skinner's heart. Fox's too, from the expression on his face. "I thought ... I thought you loved me. I know I love you. " More tears. He tried hard to hold them back. "Fox? Walter? Y-you _do_ still love me? Don't send me away. Please. Shoot me like ... like _he_ did in that cold, dark warehouse if you don't love me anymore. But don't make me go away, 'cause I'd rather be dead than not have my Fox or ... or my Sergei." 

To say that Walter was stunned would be putting it mildly. Shoot him? In a warehouse, like _he_ did? Alex had been shot by Luis Cardinale on a pier, not in a warehouse. And it had been broad daylight at the time, not cold and dark -- though that might have been his childhood fears coming to the surface as they did every now and again. Having to grow up with a murdered father and an abusive, alcoholic stepmother did not make for a happy past. No wonder Krycek was claustrophobic. He'd spent a lot of time locked away in closets or barred down in the basement --cold, hungry, left all alone in the dark crying himself to sleep, trying not to cry too hard and make her mad enough to beat him senseless. And what was all this about Fox and Walter sending him away, not loving him anymore? My God, Alex was their heart and soul! Without him ... there was no such thing as without him. It was utterly impossible to even comprehend a world in which Alex Krycek did not exist. He was existence itself, bringing such color to their dull, grey lives. 

Declarations, no matter how heartfelt, would not console him, Walter realized. He and Fox could say the words till they were both blue in the face or a UFO landed on the President's doorstep, whichever came first, and in this state of mind Alex wouldn't hear. //"I want to believe,"// he'd said. It was up to them to convince him how much he was loved and wanted, how badly he was needed. Deeds, not flowery sentiments -- though they too had their place on occasion --were the reassurances he sought. Well, they could give him plenty of those. 

And they did. Which was why he was now a sated, unconscious lump in the middle of the bed, both arms wrapped around an equally insensate Mulder, his coltish legs splayed most attractively, unbandaged left one pinning Skinner's right in Indian wrestler fashion. Clinging on for dear life, as if even in slumber he feared being abandoned. 

Walter scowled. His baby was hurting worse than he'd seen in a long time. Probably have nightmares about it, like the time he'd gone undercover in that whacko doomsday cult. The one whose credo must have been "if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out" because they practiced wholesale mutilation as a punishment for transgressions. Two other detectives had been among the corpses with missing body parts that kept turning up in the morgue and Alex Krycek had almost made number three. The sick sons of bitches had decided to "purify" him by hacking off his left arm above the elbow. Against orders, Walter Skinner went in with the S.W.A.T. team. They'd stormed the compound not a minute too soon and he'd taken unholy satisfaction in putting a .45 hollowpoint between the eyes of the motherfucker wielding the knife. He was lucky to get off with nothing more than a reprimand and a 30 day suspension (for insubordination, the shooting was ruled clean) but that was a bargain compared to the price his then husband-to-be had almost paid. To this day Alex carried the scars. And now .... 

Now he'd have new ones, invisible but no less painful. All because of ... because of what, some stupid science fiction show? It made no sense. Only people already incapable of separating fantasy from reality developed those sort of ... difficulties. Alex Krycek, even at a very tender age, had no trouble distinguishing between the two. And he preferred this world to any other that might be dreamt up. 

Because it was _his_ world, warts and all. 

All right, then ... if nobody was losing their marbles, another explanation was needed. And as Walter liked to remind his men, he was a detective long before ever he'd made captain. He could put two and two together and come up with the right answer when called for. In this case, the right answer had to be somewhere on that videotape. Which left him no other choice: if he wanted to help Alex, he'd have to watch the X-Files. 

* * *

Come Monday morning, Walter Skinner slipped the tape into his briefcase under a pile of expense claims (some of which rivaled even Fox's creativity!) and as soon as he got the chance told his secretary, Kim, to reschedule all his appointments and hold all phone calls except from his husbands. Then he locked his office door, pulled the Venetian blinds shut and popped the homemade cassette, labeled simply "The Krycek Episodes" into the portable video machine he'd gotten as a Christmas present last year. He rewound the tape to the beginning and hit the "Play" button. The small screen flickered to life and the first program started. Something called "Duane Barry". Mysterious disappearances with overtones of conspiracy. He frowned. Had to be just coincidence, the similarities between this and the case that, five years ago, brought rookie Detective Krycek into Major Crimes -- and his and Fox's lives. Then Alex, or rather the actor playing him came on, and Walter's heart skipped a beat. 

Because Fox had been absolutely right: this Nick Lea person could have been the real Alex Krycek's twin. Heck, you wouldn't know but they'd grown the guy in a test tube for the part. 

And it was the same with "AD Walt Skinner" and (Damn, his glasses were steaming again!) "Agent Fox".. though he had to admit Alex was right on the money with the nose. _Their_ Fox didn't have a schnozzola like that. Neither was he colorblind -- and none of _his_ missing relatives needed rescuing from ET. Not to mention he was a damn sight sexier in his favorite red Speedos than that David Whosis fellow could ever hope to be. Other than that, there seemed nothing out of the ordinary about the TV show. 

Then he saw the Smoking Man. Holy shit! Wasn't that the Reverend Philip Morley and hadn't Walter already sent him to shake hands with the devil for torturing Alex? The credits rolled and he checked, squinting through his wirerim bifocals. Nope, just another actor. 

The next few episodes weren't all that hot. Walter skipped around, picking out the bits and pieces of interest. About halfway through he found himself wondering how on earth "Agent Fox" ever made it into the Bureau. Sure, he had one of those trick memories and could spout a bunch of weird facts nobody else could be bothered to know, but for an alleged genius he was pretty damn dumb. How else to explain his not twigging on immediately to the fact his "green" partner, Krycek, was a deep cover agent? And that was one sloppy setup, framing Alex for the murders (what the hell was Forensics doing, twiddling their thumbs?) then making it look like he was part of whatever Reverend.. er, the Smoking Man... was up to all along? Cigarette butts? Come off it! Would he really be that stupid if he _were_ dirty? 

Then there was the whole "stinking-ratbastard-betrayed-me-and-gave-them-my-partner" bullshit that seemed to be a recurring theme. He hated it because it was so obviously contrived. Same way with "Fox's" habit of pounding Krycek bloody all the time -- when even a blind man could see Alex was head over heels in love with him and kept trying to protect him. That scene at the airport in Hong Kong? Skinner clenched his fists. Anyone in _his_ command would be minus their gun and badge and on the way to a holding cell if they ever mistreated a prisoner the way this egotistical jerk did Alex.. er, the TV Alex. He didn't think it could get any worse. 

He was wrong. Next up was something called "Tunguska". Remote village in Russia, or was it Siberia? Alex -- the real one -- would have found that interesting because his grandparents had come from there. Out of sheer curiosity, Walter decided to watch this one all the way through. 

He never quite made it. The prison camp was bad, the experiments with that oily, wormy stuff totally gruesome, but when they got to the part with all those peasants // who'd chopped off their left arms // surrounding Alex in the forest after Mulder -- no, Agent Fox, Walter kept reminding himself -- had abandoned him following their escape, well ... that was when the big tough Major Crimes captain lost his lunch. _And_ his breakfast. And maybe even last night's dinner as well. Sweet Christ in heaven, what twisted mind was responsible for this? How in the world had his darling little Sasha been able to stand it? He knew _he_ couldn't, and he was one hundred percent positive Fox -- Mulder -- would feel the same way. 

It was some time later when Skinner dared turn on the video again. He did _not_ want to have to go through another hour like that. "Chickenshit!" he scolded himself. "If Alex could do it then so can you. Hell, he nearly _lived_ it. The least you can do is watch and maybe you'll learn something. This _is_ for him, after all." He scanned the tape. Same old same old but with a twist: "Ratbastard-killed-my-father-and-shot-my-partner's-sister" was the new refrain. And with even less evidence than the first time around. Walter was beginning to think that this "Agent Fox" character was an absolute raving lunatic. He fast-forwarded and could not resist a smirk. What do you know, he was right. Of course, the writers took the easy way out and blamed it on the alien spaceship ... just so you'd tune in again next week and boost the ratings. 

More fastforwarding. More shadow government conspiracies and freaky science crap. Nanocytes yet! He rubbed his temples; he was beginning to get a headache. Searched a desk drawer for aspirins and, when he found them, took two, washing them down with some milk of magnesia. His stomach was still sore. 

He was also beginning to see why Alex had reacted so badly to Fox's calling him Ratfink. Talk about pouring salt into open wounds. If only Walter had known! He swore the next unlucky S.O.B. to make free with the RatBoy jokes would need a surgeon's help to remove a size 10 EEE army boot from select sensitive portions of his or her anatomy. 

One more hour to go, the last program on the tape. This was it. Whatever had hurt his sweet angel, whatever had made Alex so frightened of losing his and Fox's love, it had to be in this particular episode. He paused the tape and polished his glasses carefully with a clean linen handkerchief then settled himself in to watch, paying close attention: the slightest little thing could be the answer, the clue that he was seeking. God was in the details ... but it was quite obvious from the start He or She had nothing whatsoever to do with "Existence". 

Walter could not figure it out. Agent Fox's partner, whom the aliens had abducted and made sterile was now inexplicably knocked up -- for several months longer than a normal human female had any right to be. There were good aliens -- or less than totally evil ones? -- and bad and nobody knew which was which but they were coming after the heroes for who-only-knew-what nefarious purposes. Skinner's (Walter, not the sci-fi double) personal opinion was that ET wanted to get his wife and kid back before the crazy Earthlings made an even bigger hash of their planet. Clones on the loose, shapeshifting extraterrestrial assassins running amok and hybrids all over the place. Plot? _What_ plot? Were they making this up as they went along? He was beginning to think the whole thing was a joke. 

If so, it was one perpetrated by somebody with an extremely sick sense of humor, Walter realized. Because now they were at the warehouse. Cold, dark ... exactly the way Alex had described it to him. He shivered, his neck hairs standing on edge. // Don't look! // his inner voice warned him. // For Christ Almighty's sake, don't look. // But he had to look; he was already past the point of no return. 

Not their fault, he kept telling himself. They were only actors playing a part in someone else's story. Bringing it to life on the screen because that's what actors do. How were they supposed to know of their uncanny resemblance to three men they'd never met and never even heard of: Walter Skinner, Fox Mulder and Alex Krycek? Not fair blaming them for what was in the script. 

The travesty continued. Walter froze in horror at seeing his other self holding a gun on an already wounded, helpless man. His husband, Alex. A shot! Oh dear god, his innocent young love was covered in blood, slender body twisting in agony at Skinner's feet. Seeking escape, a place to hide, safety from the hate-filled stranger's wrath. Bright emerald eyes lost their spark, filled with unspeakable anguish at this monstrous betrayal. Seeking a mercy that did not exist ... resigning himself to his inevitable fate. 

// "Don't send me away. Shoot me like _he_ did ... if you don't love me any more ... but don't make me go away." //Krycek's words from the other night. Now at last he understood. The he had been himself. Walter Skinner, not Luis Cardinale. And Alex, his sweet precious baby bear, was afraid almost to the point of illness of losing Walter's love. Of being all used up, then cruelly cast aside, drawing his last lonely breath away from the ones he held dear. And of one day having to face the end (whenever and however it came) without his Fox, his Sergei by his side because ... 

Because he wasn't what they wanted and they hated him. 

"Not true. Not true, Alexei," Walter whispered, his throat raw and ragged, eyes red-rimmed with tears. Hesitantly, he touched the screen, as if somehow he could reach inside and bring comfort to this image of his beloved. "Never hate you, baby, never hurt you. Never, ever let you go." 

Sorrow gave way to anger. Rage washed over him; the urge to smash, rend, destroy. Wipe out anything and everything he perceived as a threat. It would be _so_ easy: Walter Skinner had once been a Marine. He'd seen combat, seen men die -- more than a few of them at his own hands. And right now he wanted nothing more than to feel said hands tightening around a certain television producer's throat. 

Except it wouldn't do any good. The damage had already been done. Now to find a way to live with it. 

* * *

"Sasha? We need to talk." 

Alex Krycek tensed. This was it. He was going to be thrown out, Walter and Fox didn't need the likes of him around here anymore. He wasn't good enough, would never _be_ good enough to be loved. Fucked, yes, but that was all. His stepmother was right all along -- Alex _was_ just a worthless piece of trash. Why else had his own mother not taken him to live with her when she'd divorced his father? And that too was all his fault. If he'd been a perfect son they never would have broken up. But he wasn't perfect, wasn't lovable, no matter how hard he tried to be -- and so she'd gone away and his Dad got lonely and married Marita. And then bad, stupid Alex had let a stranger into the shop (because it was raining and he looked cold and sick and Alex felt sorry for him) and he had a gun in his pocket and pulled it out and made Alex's father open the cash register but there wasn't any money in it and the man needed money to buy dope and then he heard police sirens and the gun went off and his father fell and there was blood all over him. Blood on the ten-year-old Alex's shirt and on his hands and on his face. Blood everywhere ... 

Just like the warehouse. 

// "Calm,"// Alex told himself. // "You're a big boy now. Ought to be used to being dumped."// And he was. But this time would be the death of him because this time it mattered. He schooled his features oh so carefully so as not to show pain or vulnerability and put down the magazine he'd been trying to read. "Yes, Walter?" he said, expecting the very worst. 

"I know what happened, angel. I saw the tape." 

Tape? What tape? Puzzled, Alex tried to remember. There hadn't been any... oh. " _That_ tape." 

"Yes, _that_ tape," Walter repeated and Alex realized he'd said it aloud. Damn, he was losing his edge. And he was only thirty two. 

"It's only a dumb TV show, not my life." Alex waved a dismissive hand. "Forget it, Walt. I already have." 

Walter caught the hand and held it to his breast. Held Alex, running long fingers through his silky dark hair. The younger man couldn't resist: like a kitten, he just loved being stroked. "But it hurt you, my baby bear." Sadness in his big mate's voice. "How can I forget anything that hurts you? That makes you feel like I don't love you anymore?" 

"I ... I know you love me, Walter," Alex's voice was small, childlike. "It's just ... sometimes I remember how it was before and I get scared that this is only a dream and when I wake up I'll be all alone again." 

"Oh sweetheart, I'm afraid too, sometimes, " Walter confessed with a kiss. "I keep thinking one day I'll come home only to find you and Fox gone. The two of you will have come to your senses and realized you're sick and tired of being stuck with a -- a beat up, worn out, _old_ and ugly ex-Marine." 

Alex was indignant. "Hey! That's my husband you're slandering, Mister." Kissed him back, hard. "Maybe I oughta bust your ass." 

Walter Skinner glowed. "Would you?" 

Snap! On went the handcuffs (fur-lined, naturally!) "I'll just bet you're carrying a concealed weapon," Alex murmured in his ear. Walter's breath hitched and his heart beat faster. "Then maybe you'd better do a strip search, Officer." 

He just loved it when they played this game ... 

* * *

Wednesday. Alex was going to be at the physiotherapy clinic all morning and Walter had taken time off -- as promised -- to be with him. Which meant now Fox had the chance to see for himself what was on that video tape. Walter had told him it was pretty grim stuff but when pressed wouldn't give details. He _did_ say he was severely tempted to burn the thing and have done with it, but that was for their husband to decide. And they agreed not to tell Dana. She was very fond of Alex and would be totally devastated to know that her thoughtful gesture had caused him grief. 

All in all, Fox hadn't seen more than perhaps a half dozen episodes of the program -- and that was a couple of seasons back. Time frittered away in front of the television set was time pilfered from his writing. In fact, he probably wouldn't have tuned in that first Sunday night so long ago if he hadn't been plagued with a looming deadline, severe writer's block and nerve-wracking insomnia brought on by both. There wasn't much he could do about the first two on the list but he'd always found the boob tube better than Sominex. Of course if Alex and Walter weren't both pulling double shifts he wouldn't have needed to resort to artificial means of inducing sleep in the first place. Oh well, you take whatever you can get. 

So, after much restless flicking of the remote, he'd settled on the Sci-Fi Channel. Another B flick about a Martian invasion would be just the thing to lure the old Sandman. Instead he found something called the X-Files. And out of sheer boredom he'd watched it from beginning to end. He wasn't sure what held him: the mystery the agents were trying to solve or the two main characters' had-to-be-purely-coincidental resemblance to himself and his kid sister. 

Then their boss entered the scene. AD Walt Skinner. Who could have been*his and Alex's* Walt Skinner, they looked so much alike. And there were other, almost unsettling similarities, but he soon got used to the seeming mirror-world of the show. After all, it was science _fiction_. His world was the real one and there the similarities ended. By the time the Alex Krycek character made his debut Fox was already finding the novelty wearing thin. And when it looked as if the writers were making Alex out to be a traitor and part of the conspiracy... well, that was just one more reason for Mulder to become an ex-Phile. But enough with the reminiscing. He put the cassette into the video machine and pressed "Play". Like Walter, he watched more of some episodes than he did others. Like Walter, he puked his guts out at "Tunguska" and "Alex Krycek's" brutal maiming. Like Walter, he soon began to see the _real_ picture, and it was anything but pretty. Like Walter, he sat frozen by the spectacle of the murder in the warehouse in "Existence". Alex's cruel murder, at the hands of the men he most loved. The men who had used and betrayed him. 

The men who wore his own and Walter's faces. 

Unlike Walter, he hurled the television set through the window. It made a _very_ satisfying smash -- but he didn't feel much better. He kept seeing all the blood. Those hurt, frightened green eyes. Then the bullet hole between them, ending "RatBoy Alex Krycek's" life and with it, his torture and humiliation at "Agent Fox's" and "AD Skinner's" hands. Heroes? Ha! _They_ were the monsters, not that Smoking Creep and his nasty Oilien pals. And if ET kicked their sorry asses, it'd only serve 'em right. 

//"Lexy, my love, you don't have to worry,"// he thought, looking down on the Trinitron's carcass afloat in their swimming pool. // "If ever I treat you half as shabbily ... if I say one tenth of the vile, mean garbage to you that came spouting out of _his_ mouth or (God in heaven forbid!) I show you even a shadow of the same coldness and contempt when you turn to me in need ... I'll blow my own stupid brains out."// 

He meant it, too. A world where he caused his beloved to suffer, where Alex Krycek hated him instead, was a world in which Fox Mulder absolutely refused to live. 

Ouch! Splinter of glass digging into his palm. Shouldn't have leaned on the windowsill like that. He pulled it out, wincing, and headed for the bathroom in search of a band-aid. A _big_ band-aid -- who the hell knew a tiny sliver could do so much damage? 

Who the hell knew a TV show could cut out his heart? Because that's what it felt had just happened. And if he was reacting this way, how much more pain must his Alex have been in? No, still _be_ in, Fox corrected, remembering how he and Walter had held him last night-- soothed him back to sleep after he'd woken up at three a.m. screaming -- in Russian --about silos and men with no faces trying to burn him to death. 

This wasn't right. Something ought to be done, something _had_ to be done ... but what? Fox had to admit he was fresh out of ideas. He picked up his cell phone and dialed. A new number ... they changed it practically every other week. "Langly, turn off the tape." 

* * *

**SOMEWHERE IN LA-LA LAND:**

Studio 1013 was in an uproar. Those To Whom Even Chris Carter Must Answer (a.k.a. the really, really _big_ network brass) had just received some very disconcerting information in a most unorthodox manner (their ultra-secret-even-the-CIA-the-NSA-the-FBI-and-Bill-Gates-couldn't-get-into-it private intranet had been hacked and a huge file dump consisting of hospital birth certificates, driver's licenses, marriage licenses, military and police service records, university diplomas - right down to the three subjects' kindergarten report cards - had taken place) and now they wanted an explanation. No, they _demanded_ an explanation. 

The X-Files head honcho paled under his perfect California beach boy tan. "Honest to god, I made these guys up." Tough audience, more skeptical than a roomful of Scully clones. "Doesn't anybody believe me?" he whined, trying a Mulderesque pout. He couldn't pull it off even half as well as his big star, David DamnifIknowwhathisnameis, did on the show. 

In the end he consulted his ten-grand-a-day-and-that's-only-my-retainer attorney. He wanted the best legal advice money could buy; in a situation like this even Perry Mason and Ben Matlock wouldn't do. Three days later what he got -- and it cost him nearly ten percent of next season's budget, if there even _was_ a next season -- was exactly the same as the network's own legal department had said: "Start praying these people don't sue." 

Chris Carter went out and got drunk. He was absolutely pie-eyed at 8:45 p.m. when the passing U.F.O. abducted him. Which no doubt explains why the aliens decided to drop him off on the front lawn of the White House when they were done -- they'd confused him with some of George "Doubleya" Bush's relations. An honest enough mistake for an Earthling, let alone the Greys. 

* * *

Life in the Skinner/Mulder/Krycek household was (more or less!) normal again. Alex's nightmares were few and far between; when he did have bad dreams they were of the usual variety, nothing at all to do with being hated, hunted and/or possessed by extraterrestrial biological entities of questionable origin and intent. Walter's birthday, when it came, was celebrated in style: a night out on the town followed by red-hot-swinging-from-the-chandeliers-fuck-till-you-drop-down-dead sex. It took them a week to recover - and two more before the birthday boy stopped sitting on cushions and walking like Daffy Duck. Fox's book came out to the usual bestseller acclaim and he was already hard at work on another -- this one a James Bond type adventure featuring a brand-new hero, Aloysha Arntzen: Secret Agent Triple-X. The villain of the piece was a megalomaniac film producer bent on taking over the world (duh!) by brainwashing its leaders into thinking they were only actors in the movies he was making then replacing them with vat-grown replicants programmed to carry out their master's nefarious schemes. His name was Carter - spelled with a K - and his minions were (but of course!) big-breasted bimbos guaranteed to overload the libido of every spy sent to capture them. Every spy but one: Agent Triple-X only had eyes for his partner, a hazel-eyed stud codenamed Lisitsa. The love scenes between the two men were so hot Fox warned his editor she'd need asbestos gloves on to turn the pages -- and that was only the first draft. 

**SIX MONTHS LATER:**

It was a runaway success. Even bigger than the latest two-thousand-page-scare-your-pants-off-scream-your-lungs-out-don't-you-dare-read-it-if-you're-all-alone-in-the-house 

Stephen King tome. Oprah, Donohue and Jerry Springer were falling all over themselves trying to get author F.W. Mulder on their talkshows. Dr. Laura and The Reverend Jerry Falwell were foaming at the mouth and calling on all "Right-thinking, God-fearing, red-blooded Americans" to demand a nation wide ban of _Secret Agent Triple-X_. CBS held special live coverage of the book burning, in which some idiot with a flamethrower nearly incinerated the fundamentalist preacher, leaving a paper mountain of "the Devil's works" - atop of which a bemused cameraman had noticed a thick black volume with gold Cyrillic lettering - untouched. Being of Slavic ancestry and the Russian Orthodox faith, he knew a Bible when he saw one and braved the protesters to rescue the sacred scripture. It took teargas and five _huge_ policemen in full riot gear to save the poor guy from the bloodthirsty, homophobic horde. In Hollywood a major bidding war for the motion picture rights broke out, ending when Paramount quadrupled Fox Studio's gazillion-dollar offer and _insisted_ on Mulder writing the screenplay. Stanley Kubrick dropped everything to direct. Every superstar and wannabe in Tinsel Town was vying for the lead and it was widely rumored (and not once denied) that Tom Hanks was already under contract to play the stunning Agent Lisitsa. Leonardo DiCaprio surprised everybody in the business by auditioning for and winning the part of the dastardly villain - which he considered a "serious dramatic role". 

Nick Lea beat out Tom Cruise for the part of Aloysha, an Oscar-winning role if ever there was one. 

* * *

**ON AN INTERSTELLAR VECHICLE, SOMEWHERE NEAR PROXIMA VECHICLE:**

Five Greys, a shapeshifter, two hybrid Reticulans and a recently recovered humanoid clone were gathered around a video monitor that took up an entire "wall" of the small research vessel. They were observing a Terrestrial cultural phenomenon known as a Hollywood motion picture premiere. Everyone who was _anyone_ was in attendance. So much glamour, glitz and "star power" that even light years away in space it was blinding and the bedazzled aliens had to adjust their equipment several times so as not to be completely overwhelmed by the spectacle. And when they saw Fox Mulder getting out of the limo with husbands Alex and Walter on either arm, it was enough to drive the staid, it's-been-eons-since-we've-been-laid crew into the absolute mother of all mating frenzies. With one very notable exception. 

The Clone Formerly Known As Chris Carter cursed. A long string of guttural obscenities, guaranteed to make a battle-hardened Klingon blush with shame. He'd thought his worst nightmare was over, he didn't have to worry about being sued anymore. But nobody had _ever_ warned him about being lampooned. And by a bunch of primitives yet! When this got out, he'd be the laughingstock of the galaxy. Of several galaxies. Never again would he be perceived as the hero, the revolutionary artiste whose dramatic new visions would inspire countless generations to come. It was enough to make a vat-grown replicant cry. Or wish this refitted wallowing ore tub had phaser banks like the _real_ starships did so he could redeem his honor by blowing all the critics - _and_ that oddball blue planet the Stellar Confederacy was hoping to make an alliance with -to smithereens. But if wishes were gantoks ... he sighed. Enough of this -- they were on a mission and there was work to be done. He stepped over a knot of copulating crewmen (without even an apology, the ruffian!) and headed for the turbolift. Punched in the code (damn crate didn't even have basic voice recognition technology) that would take him to Deck 13. His was the most important job of all. 

He was the ship's sanitation engineer ... and those kerflarkkyllyn low-grav toilets _still_ weren't working right. 

The End. 

* * *

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